July 9, 2009
The midday sun hung heavy over New York City, but the chaos below cast long shadows across the streets. Nyoirin Henecha, seated in a blacked-out SUV parked just a block away, watched with cold satisfaction as his hired enforcers unleashed their assault on The Hand.
Silver Sable moved like a storm through the battlefield, her team of Wild Pack operatives systematically neutralizing Hand ninjas with precise gunfire and tactical efficiency. Bullseye, perched on the roof of a nearby building, picked off targets with chilling accuracy, his laughter echoing as he turned everyday objects into deadly projectiles. Taskmaster, ever the combat chameleon, cut through Hand operatives using their own techniques against them, his movements a flawless mirror of their deadliest maneuvers.
Nyoirin leaned back, lighting a cigar as he observed the chaos. "Let them burn," he muttered, the acrid smoke curling around his smug grin.
The streets were a warzone. Explosions rocked nearby buildings, and terrified civilians scrambled for safety. The Hand fought back fiercely, their relentless waves of assassins meeting Nyoirin's mercenaries in a clash of blood and steel. The collateral damage grew with every passing second, cars overturned, storefronts shattered, and fires erupting in the wake of their destruction.
From above, Spider-Man swung into view, his mask hiding the grim determination on his face. "What in the name of Rat Man is going on down there?" he muttered, scanning the chaos below.
Not far behind, Psylocke leapt gracefully from a rooftop, landing beside him on a streetlamp. Her psychic blade flickered in her hand, glowing faintly against the smoke-filled sky. "Nyoirin's not just defending himself—he's escalating this into an outright war," she said, her voice tight with anger.
Spider-Man pointed toward the epicenter of the conflict, where Silver Sable's team was advancing on a retreating group of Hand operatives. "We need to get those civilians out of here before one of those nutjobs turns this into a disaster movie."
Betsy nodded, her violet hair whipping in the wind. "You focus on evacuating the area. I'll see if I can draw their attention away."
Spider-Man gave her a thumbs-up before swinging into action, his webs latching onto a burning building as he swooped down to guide trapped civilians to safety. "Everyone, move! Complimentary Spider-powered escort service, this way!"
Meanwhile, Betsy descended into the chaos, her movements fluid and precise as she confronted a squad of Wild Pack soldiers. A quick series of strikes disarmed them, her psychic blade slicing through their weapons like paper. "You're targeting the wrong enemy," she said, her voice cutting through the din. "This isn't your fight."
Before she could press further, Bullseye's mocking voice rang out from above. "Well, well, if it isn't the new-and-improved Psylocke. Nice tricks—let's see if you can keep up!"
A hail of projectiles rained down on her—coins, nails, even shards of glass—but Betsy's reflexes, honed by Kwannon's training, kicked in. She dodged and deflected with ease, her psychic blade slicing a path through the assault.
"Cute," she called back, "but I've dealt with bigger bullies than you."
Bullseye sneered, preparing another barrage, but before he could attack, Spider-Man swung in, webbing his hands to the rooftop. "Hey, Bullseye, ever heard of too much flair? You're like a one-man Vegas act up here!"
Taskmaster, spotting the pair, charged forward, his sword raised. Betsy met him head-on, their blades clashing in a flurry of sparks. Taskmaster's mimicry was uncanny, but Betsy's newfound skills gave her an unpredictable edge. She pressed him hard, forcing him to retreat under her relentless assault.
As the fight raged on, Spider-Man and Psylocke worked in tandem, their movements synchronized despite the chaos. Together, they managed to push back Nyoirin's mercenaries and The Hand, creating enough of a lull to evacuate the remaining civilians.
Finally, Nyoirin's voice crackled over a nearby comm. "Pull back. We've made our point."
Reluctantly, Silver Sable signaled her team to retreat, while Bullseye and Taskmaster vanished into the shadows. The Hand also began to withdraw, their forces diminished but not broken.
As the dust settled, Spider-Man and Psylocke stood amid the wreckage, their breaths heavy but steady.
"We stopped the worst of it," Peter said, his voice weary. "But this is far from over."
Betsy nodded, her psychic blade dissipating as she gazed at the destruction around them. "The Hand won't stop until they've achieved their goals. And Nyoirin—he's just as dangerous."
Peter placed a hand on her shoulder. "We'll deal with it. Together."
For a moment, amidst the smoldering ruins, they found a brief reprieve, their partnership forged even stronger by the trials ahead.
Faiza Hussain stepped off the bus in Manhattan, her mind racing with fragmented thoughts. The sprawling city buzzed with life despite the recent devastation, a resilience that both impressed and unnerved her. Dressed in civilian clothes, her appearance blended seamlessly with the crowd, though her focused demeanor set her apart.
She clutched her bag tightly, containing only the essentials she'd packed for this impromptu journey: her Excalibur-inspired sword, concealed and disassembled, and a dossier of notes about Betsy. She had insisted to Captain Britain that she could handle this alone. But as she scanned the unfamiliar streets, Faiza realized she had underestimated the enormity of the task ahead.
A nearby electronic billboard caught her attention. The words "BREAKING NEWS" flashed in bold letters, accompanied by footage of Spider-Man and Psylocke in action. Faiza stepped closer, weaving through a small crowd gathered outside an electronics store.
Mary Jane Watson's poised voice carried over the chaos of the recorded scene. "Earlier today, Spider-Man and Psylocke averted a major disaster, saving dozens of civilians caught in the crossfire of a violent confrontation in Midtown. Reports suggest the attackers were members of The Hand, a notorious criminal organization, while a rival faction contributed to the destruction. While the details remain unclear, witnesses describe coordinated efforts by Spider-Man and Psylocke to minimize casualties and neutralize the threat."
The screen shifted to grainy footage of the battle. Spider-Man swung through the air, pulling trapped civilians from danger with effortless precision. Psylocke, in her newly transformed state, fought with a fluidity that mesmerized Faiza. Her strikes were decisive, her psychic blade glowing fiercely as she dismantled one attacker after another.
A man beside Faiza murmured to his companion, "They're real heroes, those two. The city owes them."
Faiza barely heard him, her gaze fixed on the screen. The gravity of the situation settled in her chest, heavy and unrelenting. Betsy's presence here was not just a simple move to New York. It was a battle for her identity, her place in a world spiraling out of control.
The broadcast continued, now showing Mary Jane in the newsroom. "While the heroes are being hailed for their bravery, the collateral damage serves as a stark reminder of the growing dangers in our city. This escalation leaves many asking: what comes next?"
Faiza turned away, her thoughts a whirlwind. Her instincts told her this was more than a typical skirmish. The coordinated efforts, the strange alliances—it all pointed to something much larger. Betsy was at the heart of it, entangled in a web of danger and transformation.
She took a deep breath, steeling herself. "I've got to find her," she murmured. "This isn't just about Betsy anymore. It's about everything she's fighting for—and what she's becoming."
Adjusting her bag, Faiza set off toward Peter Parker's apartment. She had an address from her research and a determination to match. The city around her buzzed with life, but Faiza felt the weight of the storm gathering on the horizon.
Her mission was no longer just a personal quest to help Betsy. It was quickly becoming a matter of survival—for Betsy, for Peter, and for the city teetering on the brink of chaos.
The bustling New York streets were a sensory overload for Faiza Hussain. She weaved through the throngs of people, the smells of street food mingling with the city's faint undertone of exhaust and asphalt. Her mission felt both urgent and daunting, a quiet determination propelling her forward as she clutched the scrap of paper with Peter Parker's address.
Stopping at a corner, Faiza looked around for any sign of the apartment building. Her stomach growled faintly; she'd skipped breakfast in her rush to leave London. As she adjusted her satchel, a friendly voice interrupted her thoughts.
"You look a little lost, dear. Need help?"
Faiza turned to see an older woman standing beside her, holding a small shopping basket filled with fresh produce and a loaf of bread. Her kind eyes and warm smile immediately put Faiza at ease.
"Yes, actually," Faiza admitted. "I'm looking for this address. I think I'm close, but I'm not quite sure." She handed the paper for the woman to read it.
"Well, would you look at that," the woman said with a chuckle. "That's my building! I'm May—May Parker. You must be looking for my nephew, Peter."
Faiza's heart skipped a beat. She hadn't expected to stumble upon someone connected to Peter so quickly, let alone his aunt. "It's lovely to meet you, Mrs. Parker. I'm Faiza," she said, offering her hand. "I'm a… friend of Betsy's."
May's face lit up. "Oh, Betsy! Such a sweet girl. It's been a joy having her around. She's been a wonderful influence on Peter."
Faiza smiled, sensing the genuine affection in May's voice. "I'm glad to hear that. She's… been through a lot recently, and I wanted to check in on her."
"Well, you're in luck. Peter's apartment is just around the corner," May said, pointing down the street. "I was just about to head back myself. Why don't we walk together?"
As they strolled, Faiza and May fell into an easy conversation. May spoke fondly of Peter, her stories painting a picture of a devoted young man juggling responsibilities far beyond his years. Faiza listened intently, her admiration for Peter growing with each anecdote.
"You know," May said as they approached the building, "it's not often Peter lets people into his life. But he seems so happy with Betsy. I haven't seen him smile like that in years."
Faiza nodded, touched by the sentiment. "They're good for each other. I think they help each other find balance."
May paused at the building's entrance, turning to Faiza. "You're a good friend for checking in on Betsy. She could use all the support she can get."
"I just hope I'm not intruding," Faiza said.
"Nonsense," May replied with a smile. "Here, let me give you Peter's apartment number. I'll be upstairs if you need anything."
As May disappeared into the building, Faiza lingered outside for a moment, taking a deep breath. She wasn't ready to face Peter or Betsy just yet. The chaos she'd seen on the news weighed heavily on her, and she needed to gather her thoughts.
With a glance up at the building, Faiza turned and walked back toward the street, deciding to give herself more time before confronting the reality of her mission. The city hummed around her, and for the first time since arriving, she felt the faintest glimmer of hope.
The dimly lit chamber pulsed with an eerie red glow from ancient lanterns, their flickering light casting ominous shadows on the stone walls. Betsy Braddock stood at the center, her violet hair shimmering unnaturally in the dim light, her gaze unfocused. Her breaths were shallow, her body tense as if trapped between action and paralysis.
Matsu'o Tsurayaba watched her intently from his elevated perch, his calculating eyes gleaming with triumph. The leader of The Hand moved with deliberate grace, his crimson robes billowing slightly as he descended the steps toward her. He was patient, his every step measured, savoring the moment.
"You've fought valiantly, Elizabeth," Matsu'o said, his smooth voice coiling around the chamber like smoke. "But you're lost now, aren't you? Struggling to find where you end and where she begins."
Betsy's head snapped up, her eyes narrowing. "I know who I am," she said, though her voice wavered.
Matsu'o smirked, sensing the fracture in her confidence. "Do you? Are you the noble warrior of the X-Men? Or are you Kwannon, my loyal assassin, reborn to reclaim her place at my side?" He circled her slowly, his presence oppressive, his words deliberate.
Betsy clenched her fists, her mind spinning. Since the merging of her body and Kwannon's, the psychic echoes had grown stronger. Fragments of Kwannon's life, her training, her pain—they were becoming indistinguishable from her own.
"I am neither yours nor hers," Betsy spat, but her conviction was brittle.
Matsu'o chuckled, his voice darkly amused. "Ah, such defiance. But I see the conflict within you. Kwannon's instincts have already awakened in your movements. Her skills, her essence—everything that once belonged to her now resides in you."
Betsy's mind flashed back to the earlier fight. The precise strikes, the calculated footwork—all executed with an expertise she hadn't possessed before. The realization unnerved her.
"You are a weapon, Elizabeth," Matsu'o continued, his tone growing softer, more insidious. "A blade that has been reforged. The Hand exists to guide such power, to give it purpose. Why fight against what you've already become?"
Betsy took a step back, her psychic energy flaring faintly around her fists as she struggled to steady herself. "You're wrong. I'm not yours to control."
"Not yet," Matsu'o replied, his expression darkening. He gestured, and from the shadows, members of The Hand emerged, their movements silent, their presence suffocating.
Betsy instinctively shifted into a defensive stance, but her mind faltered. Her psychic connection to Kwannon flickered, a torrent of memories cascading through her thoughts: Kwannon's voice, her loyalty to The Hand, her devotion to Matsu'o. It was overwhelming, disorienting.
Matsu'o stepped closer, his voice a low, commanding whisper. "Embrace who you are meant to be. Serve The Hand, and I will show you the clarity you seek. Fight, and you will only lose yourself further."
Betsy's vision blurred for a moment, the line between her identity and Kwannon's fragmenting further. She struggled to focus, but the psychic noise was deafening.
Matsu'o extended his hand toward her, his expression that of a master claiming his prize. "It is time to stop resisting, Elizabeth. Become the weapon you were destined to be."
The chamber grew deathly quiet as Betsy stood frozen, caught in the web of Matsu'o's manipulation. The shadows of The Hand closed in, their presence amplifying the weight of the decision before her.
Matsu'o's smile deepened, his confidence unwavering. "Soon, you will see the truth."
As he turned away, he gestured to his assassins. "Prepare her. The weapon is almost complete."
Betsy's psychic energy flared briefly, a desperate flicker of defiance in the oppressive darkness. The chamber felt suffocating, the oppressive red glow casting jagged shadows across the walls. Betsy Braddock knelt in the center, her body trembling with strain as the psychic echoes of Kwannon's memories churned within her mind. Matsu'o Tsurayaba stood above her, calm and composed, like a predator savoring its prey.
"You feel it, don't you?" Matsu'o's voice was like silk, wrapping around her thoughts. "The clarity of purpose waiting for you. Surrender to it, and you will finally understand your place."
Betsy's violet hair clung to her damp face as she looked up, her psychic energy flickering faintly in the air. Her breathing was heavy, her focus wavering, but something deeper burned within her—a defiance that refused to be extinguished.
"You think I'd let you make me into your weapon?" she spat, her voice hoarse but resolute. "I've fought too hard to be who I am."
Matsu'o raised an eyebrow, his expression a mask of feigned sympathy. "Who you are? A fractured soul, pulled in two directions. Kwannon's body, your mind. Neither complete, neither whole. You are chaos. I offer you balance."
Betsy pushed herself to her feet, her legs shaky but firm. She clenched her fists, feeling the sharp sting of her nails digging into her palms. "You don't understand me at all. I'm not chaos—I'm evolution."
Matsu'o's calm demeanor faltered slightly, his eyes narrowing. "You cling to delusions, to weakness. You cannot deny what you've become."
Betsy's mind flared with flashes of Peter's face, his unwavering belief in her, his quiet strength. She thought of the X-Men, her comrades who had trusted her to stand beside them in battle. These weren't just memories—they were anchors, grounding her amidst the storm raging in her soul.
"I can deny you," Betsy said, her voice steadying. "Because I have something you'll never understand. Love. Loyalty. A reason to fight."
Matsu'o's lip curled, his patience thinning. "Foolish sentimentality. It will only make you weaker."
Betsy's psychic knife materialized in her hand, its vibrant glow illuminating her determined face. She leveled it at Matsu'o, her eyes blazing. "It's what makes me stronger. And it's why you'll never control me."
The assassins of The Hand tensed, ready to strike at Matsu'o's command, but he held up a hand, his calm composure returning. His sharp gaze locked with Betsy's, assessing her resolve.
"You are remarkable, Elizabeth," he admitted, his tone begrudgingly respectful. "But even the strongest minds can be bent. This is not over."
Betsy took a step forward, her psychic energy surging around her. For a moment, the tension in the room was palpable, the promise of violence hanging in the air. But then, she stopped.
"I don't need to destroy you to win," Betsy said, lowering her psychic blade. "You're not worth it."
Matsu'o smirked, though there was a flicker of irritation in his expression. "Then leave, for now. But know this—I am patient. And the Hand always finishes what it starts."
Betsy turned away, her shoulders squared, her heart pounding. The fight wasn't over—not by a long shot—but for now, she had reclaimed her agency. As she walked out of the chamber, the whispers of Kwannon's memories lingered in her mind, but they no longer felt like chains.
Behind her, Matsu'o watched, his fingers steepled in contemplation. "Sooner or later," he murmured, "even the strongest blades must yield to the hand that wields them."
But Betsy was already gone, her determination burning brighter than ever.
The streets of New York City were quiet, save for the rhythmic clatter of Betsy's boots as she darted through narrow alleys, her breath ragged and sharp. The humid night air felt suffocating, but it wasn't the city that weighed on her—it was the memories.
Each step seemed to echo with a vision from a life she hadn't lived. Kwannon's life. Her memories came in jagged fragments: the cold discipline of the Hand's training grounds, the searing pain of failure, and the quiet intimacy of a shared moment with Matsu'o Tsurayaba. They hit her like phantom blows, disrupting her rhythm and making her stumble.
"Focus," Betsy muttered under her breath, gripping her temple as a sharp jolt of pain radiated through her skull. "This isn't real. These aren't mine."
But they felt real. She could smell the incense that hung in the air of the Hand's training halls, feel the bite of the blade against her skin as she practiced endless forms, and see Matsu'o's piercing eyes watching her with a mix of admiration and expectation.
The disorientation left her vulnerable. From the shadows, a trio of Hand assassins sprang, their crimson garb blending seamlessly with the darkness. Betsy barely reacted in time, her instincts carrying her through the first attack.
A katana whistled through the air, aiming for her neck. She ducked, spinning low and kicking out, sending one attacker sprawling. Her psychic knife flared to life in her hand, and she plunged it into the second assassin's chest, the strike disabling his mind without drawing blood.
The third was faster, his blade nicking her arm before she turned the momentum of her dodge into a spinning strike. Her fist connected with his jaw, sending him crashing into a stack of crates.
Panting, Betsy staggered back against the wall, her hand pressed against the shallow cut on her arm. The pain was sharp but grounding, pulling her focus back to the present.
"Come on, Betsy," she said to herself, her voice shaky. "You've fought worse than this."
But the memories wouldn't relent. Another wave crashed over her: Kwannon, kneeling before Matsu'o, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. His voice, smooth and commanding, echoed in her mind.
"You are my finest blade, Kwannon. Never forget who you serve."
Betsy squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head violently as if the motion could dispel the vision. "I'm not her," she growled. "I'm not yours."
Another group of assassins emerged from the shadows, their movements coordinated and deadly. Betsy's grip on her psychic knife tightened as she prepared for another fight. But this time, her movements were more fluid, more precise. Kwannon's training, ingrained in the body she now inhabited, took over.
She spun through the attackers like a whirlwind, her strikes efficient and devastating. A kick sent one flying into a brick wall. A psychic blade incapacitated another. The last fell with a precise strike to the throat, his body crumpling to the ground.
Betsy didn't linger to admire her work. She was exhausted, her body trembling from exertion and psychic overload. With one last look at the darkened street, she darted into the shadows, making her way toward the safety of Peter's apartment.
As she ran, her mind replayed one final memory: Matsu'o standing over Kwannon, his face cold and calculating. This time, Betsy focused on the details—the sharpness of his features, the scar that cut across his cheek, the cruel twist of his mouth.
She clenched her fists, her resolve hardening. "At least now I know what you look like," she whispered to herself.
By the time she reached the apartment building, the first hints of dawn were breaking over the horizon. Betsy leaned against the door, her breaths shallow, her body battered but alive. She hadn't captured Matsu'o, but she had survived. And now, she had a face to match the man who had thrown her life into chaos.
The city's nighttime hum filtered through the cracked windows of Peter's modest apartment. The muffled sound of footsteps echoed down the hallway as Peter, still in his Spider-Man suit but with the mask tucked into his belt, unlocked the door. Betsy stood next to him, her expression a mix of weariness and anticipation. She'd only just returned after barely escaping The Hand's latest assault.
"Home sweet—oh," Peter began, stopping short as he spotted a figure waiting in the dim light of the hallway.
"Faiza?" Betsy's tone was sharp with surprise as she stepped closer, immediately recognizing the young British woman.
Faiza Hussain, clad in a simple cardigan and jeans, straightened as they approached. Her eyes widened as she looked Betsy over, taking in the striking violet hair and subtle but unmistakable shift in her presence.
"I had my suspicions when I saw the news," Faiza said, her voice steady despite the weight of the moment. "But seeing you now—Betsy, it really is you. And Peter Parker…" Her gaze flicked between the two, piecing it together. "You're Spider-Man, aren't you?"
Peter tensed but didn't deny it. "Great. Another person figures it out. Guess I should just get business cards made at this point."
Betsy placed a calming hand on his arm. "She's on our side, Peter. Faiza's a trusted ally."
Faiza gave a small nod. "And friend, I hope." Her gaze softened as she turned to Betsy. "But your appearance—it's changed. The broadcast only hinted at it. What's happened to you?"
Peter pushed open the door, gesturing for them to enter. "Why don't we talk inside? The hallway isn't exactly private."
Once inside, Betsy sat on the couch, her posture stiff as Faiza and Peter pulled up chairs. Betsy hesitated, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. "It's… complicated," she began, her voice quieter than usual. "During a fight with The Hand, I encountered someone—another woman, Kwannon. Through some accident—some mystic interference—we've been fused. My mind, my powers, and her body. And now…" She gestured vaguely to herself.
Faiza listened intently, her brow furrowed. "Fused? That explains why you fought so differently in the footage. And those memories you must be carrying…"
"They've been a lot," Betsy admitted, rubbing her temple. "It's like having two lives tangled together, neither fully mine."
Peter leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "And it's not just The Hand. Another player's entered the game: Nyoirin. He's hired some serious muscle—Silver Sable, Taskmaster, Bullseye. We're dealing with chaos on multiple fronts."
Faiza crossed her arms, considering the gravity of the situation. "This is worse than I thought. The Hand's operations alone could cause destruction, but adding Nyoirin into the mix—it's no wonder the city feels like it's on the brink."
For a moment, she seemed to weigh an unspoken decision. "I could… No."
Betsy noticed the weight behind Faiza cutting herself off from her suggestion. The worst part was that she could not even bring herself to counter the rationale. She did not want Brian to be dragged into this. Holding herself together in this new body was already a struggle, she would not allow herself to put up with another major revelation.
Looking to move past the subject, Betsy suggested, "All right. Then we focus on finding out what The Hand is after. They're escalating for a reason. If we can figure out what it is, maybe we can stop it before it's too late."
Peter straightened. "That's the plan. But for now, Betsy, I need you to stay here tomorrow morning. You've been through too much already, and Aunt May's been worried about you. She'll feel better seeing you safe."
Betsy opened her mouth to argue but paused, glancing down. "I don't like it, but… you're right."
Peter smiled gently, reaching over to squeeze her hand. "We'll handle things. I promise."
Faiza stood, looking between them. "Then we should all rest while we can. Tomorrow will come quickly, and we'll need our strength."
The three exchanged solemn nods as they prepared for the battles ahead. But in that moment, despite the uncertainty and the weight of their mission, there was a sense of unity—a fragile but determined alliance forming in the heart of the chaos.
Author's Note: Hello everyone, I hope you're all doing well, and you enjoyed the events here. Especially the continued fusion of Betsy and Kwannon as they fully take form after all the challenges from before. On top of that, you also have Faiza to look forward to contributing to the fight now that she has arrived along with the escalating odds that are coming from the growing escalation that occurs through New York.
I would also like to thank KaidoFett for continuing the reviews and I understand if the X-Men might not feel like they've had much of an impact just yet. I really wanted to make sure I managed to get key events based around Peter and Betsy completed before doing anything else that was major. Especially in a storyline where Betsy is going through the situation she is in right now. At least there's that and there's also the fact I've been trying to make sure the villains get screentime as well.
If it's any incentive, I actually will be having more of them appear in future chapters, especially in this volume. For everyone else who's following, I hope you all look forward to the further developments and the enticing action in the future.